


The Long Con

by Yessydo



Category: Canadian 6 Degrees, Hard Core Logo (1996)
Genre: Angst, Codependency, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1913319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yessydo/pseuds/Yessydo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe bullshits himself almost as much as he does Billy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Con

**Author's Note:**

> I've been on a C6D nostalgia trip that shows no signs of stopping. Enjoy this fic from a million years ago.

Joe had seemed so grown up when Billy was was thirteen. Ten months difference in age seemed like a mile wide chasm filled with innumerable experiences. Joe was so worldly, possessing all kinds of forbidden knowledge like where to get cigarettes and beer and porno mags. Years later, of course, Billy would learn that all of these treasures had simply been pilfered from under the noses of inattentive parents, but when they were kids Joe seemed like the fucking gatekeeper, standing at the mouth of a world beyond imagination. He was the very picture of effortless cynicism, poster boy for the brand of disaffected cool that was everything Billy aspired to. Joe Mulgrew was in a league of his own. It didn’t occur to Billy for many years to think it odd for someone like Joe to spend so much time over at his house. He didn’t hang out with anyone else because he was too cool for their scenes. Besides, he only came over because he could keep his guitar in Billy’s basement. At least, that was what he always said.

 

The first whiff of Joe’s bullshit caught Billy’s nostrils when he was seventeen. They’d started a band with a couple of guys from school. Hard Core Logo. Joe had scrawled the name across the front of their bass drum in magic marker.

“Oh come on,” Billy sneered, “that looks fucking terrible!” Joe just laughed.

“Exactly,” he flashed Billy his trademark shark-toothed grin, “that’s exactly right, Billy, very good.” He then launched into what had to be a prepared speech about subverting expectations of mediocrity by diving straight down to the bottom of the barrel. Billy and John nodded along, humouring him, occasionally casting disbelieving glances in each other’s direction. Pipe was the only one who seemed at all taken with Joe’s philosophy, including Joe himself. “It’s a fucking game, Bill. It’s just up to you whether or not you play fair.” Billy smiled, a little wearily.

“Can we just do a real fucking logo?” He pleaded. Joe smirked and he slung an arm across Billy’s shoulders, letting it sit heavily on the back of his neck.

“Of course,” he cooed, pressing a wet kiss to Billy’s cheek “anything for my little Billiam.”

 

Going against every rational cell in his body, Billy followed Joe from their Surrey suburb to Vancouver in the summer of 1978. They found a studio apartment with just enough room to throw a mattress on the floor and plug in a hotplate. Billy was pretty sure the walls were insulated with newsprint and the thin layer of olive drab paint was peeling off the walls to reveal generations of mould. They’d probably die of tuberculosis when the first cold snap hit, but it was still July and for now, it was home. Menial jobs kept the rent paid and left them with enough hours in the day to devote a reasonable amount of time to their true vocation, which seemed to have less to do with music these days and more to do with trying to break each other’s skulls. They weren’t exactly Ozzie and Harriet, but somehow in between knocking chunks out of each other on a daily basis they managed to scrape together enough balance and harmony to write, practice and gig. 

 

The second time Joe spent the rent money on coke, Billy lost it like he’d never done before. It was the biggest fight they’d ever had, both of them screaming their heads off, kicking and grappling at each other. It only ended when Billy smashed an acoustic guitar over Joe’s back. He fell flat on his face and lay motionless on the worn planks for long enough that Billy was worried he might actually be dead. After a minute that seemed to stretch for weeks, Joe let out a ragged groan. Billy sank to the floor and buried his face in his hands.

“You’re such a fucking piece of shit, Joe.” His voice trembled. He could hear Joe’s rings scraping on the floor as he picked himself up.

“I know,” Joe replied, almost meek, sliding over to sit next to Billy, “I’ll quit, I swear.” He really meant it, actually believed he was going to stop dicking around and dragging them both down. The sincerity in his voice nearly broke Billy’s fucking heart. Joe Dick, master manipulator, was falling for his own lines. Billy laid his head down on Joe’s shoulder and rested a hand on his knee.

“I know.” He lied for both of them.

 

The part of Billy that thought he didn’t need Joe got left behind when he walked on stage. At the beginning of each set, Joe would cup the back of his neck and press their foreheads together, melding them into one person. Two barely functioning halves making up one shambolic, frenetic but infinitely powerful whole. John and Pipe might as well have been just two more members of the audience. When the show finished, Billy felt an ache as he and Joe became separate people again. It stayed with him as he lay awake on their lumpy, fraying mattress, listening to Joe snore softly beside him. He traced his fingers along his forearms, ghosting over the scars left by the countless brawls they’d shared over the years. He’d put good money on Joe having an almost identical set. Broken glass, cigarettes, good old claws and teeth. Even if he left, walked out the door and never looked back, never uttered the name Joe Dick ever again, he’d carry those scars forever like one half of one of those “Best Friends” necklaces. One way or another, they were going to be together forever.


End file.
